


American Dream

by PaxVobis



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Backrubs, Begging, Breasts, Brief Magnus/Pickles, Brief Nathan Being A Fucking Moron, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gun Kink, Humiliation, Insults, Kim Kardashian - Freeform, M/M, Massage, Murderface Is Really Gay, Murderface Tries To Defend How He's Totally Not, Nathan/Pickles implied, Pickup trucks, Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, really gay, trans pickles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 03:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10179344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: “Oh, I need a back rub!  I miss Pickles.”R18+ only, explicit sex.





	

**Author's Note:**

> content warning for some light stuff, such as fantasised pre-op Pickles and excuses, that might make trans guys a bit uncomfortable. murderface ain't the most subtle head to be in.

The way to get Pickles to give you a backrub, Murderface had discovered, was to complain about it long and loud enough that he caved in to your bullshit.

They were sitting around, shootin’ the breeze.  Pickles on the arcade machines, Murderface flopped on the couch with a few of the other guys, but at the corner closest to Pickles.  And complaining.  You could tell Pickles was starting to get pissed off, because he kept losing his game, a chirpy little chip tune declining and a few choice curses.  Murderface had been going for an hour and a half, roughly, wiggling his shoulders and groaning and complaining about sore muscles, and now - yeah, an hour and a half in, Pickles had started pinging back on his whinging.

“Ohh, my back juscht hurtsch so much.”

“Yeah.”

“Oooh.  Hurtsch to roll it.”

“Yeah.”

“Like… a dull pain… deep in the muschle.”

“Right.”

“Ooo-ah!  It muscht have been all that _practische_ I’ve been doing.”

“Unlikely, you probably just wackin off too much.”

He didn’t even look up at Murderface, but this particular complaint got Skwisgaar’s attention from across the room, holding his staccato plucking on his Gibson for a second.  “Ja, you never practice Moiderface.  Yous definitely pulling dis chicken jerky… too much.  Ha!”

Murderface glared sideways at him.  “Well fuck you too, Mr fuckin’... CFE.”

“What?” chirped Toki from the floor, looking away from the TV.

“Obscure one,” said Pickles to _Pacman Sluts_.

“I don’ts get it.”

“Cat show.  Sees a lat of pussy.”  Pickles filled in the joke flawlessly, smashing buttons in sequence, never pulling his eyes away.

“Scheesch a lotta _inbred_ pusschy,”  Murderface sighed, rolled his shoulder, and yelped again.  “Aw, fuck - - !”

And Pickles’ fist came down square on the pause button.

“Okey.  Okey!  Fuck!” he cried, framing his face with his tensed, poised-to-strangle hands in protest, and then spat it into the silence created by the paused music: “Murderface, Do You Want A _Friggin Back Rub_.”

“Finally,” said Murderface with victorious skeeze, and Pickles rolled his eyes and moved over, hoisting himself onto the back of the couch.  With his small frame, he could balance behind the bassist easily, setting his hands on the guy’s shoulders.

“I thought you’d never give in,” he heard Nathan growl, a satisfaction in his voice, and Pickles grumbled quietly by his ear.

“Yeah yeah, whatever.  Okey.  Take off this stupid vest.  And relax, you fat-ass, tub of crep.”

And William the Conqueror did so.  And relaxed.  Let Pickles work his magic, with his keen little hands and quiet snorts of disgust.  Pickles did not go easy.  But boy, did he go.

There was an embarrassing trade-off for the back rubs that Murderface had long since succumbed to.  Ultimately, it was always Pickles’ concentration that set him off.  Gave him a weird feeling like the willies, whenever he thought about Pickles just staring at his body and trying to work out the best way to move it.  Hearing his little sniffs and complaints.  “Ew” and “Christ” and so forth, right next to his ear.  The point was, being manhandled by Pickles - or - whatever, handled, shoved around, knuckles ground between his back muscles, always got him hard.  He could either try to listen to the conversation Pickles was having with the other dudes, which would definitely be fucking pointless and inane, or get lost in his fantasies and - well, Murderface wasn’t gay, you know, but it wasn’t like Pickles was a dude, exactly.  You know, the exception that proved the rule.  And Pickles didn’t know.  So who was it hurting?

He tried to listen for two seconds.  This is what Nathan was saying:  “Look at that chick.  Damn.  That’s some, blow-up bimbo, what the hell.”  And he was looking at the TV. 

Murderface looked at the TV too.  By his ear, Pickles said, “Det’s Kim Kardashian.”  It was Kim Kardashian.  With a warmth growing in his body as the drummer kneaded his shoulders, Murderface thought about fucking her, and it was good.

“She’s got like, boobs _and_ ass.  That’s… that’s making me question my whole identity.”

“What, like whether you’re a tits or ass man?  You’re a tits man, Nate, you know det.”

“I know but, I’m just sayin’, it’s making me wonder!”

Fucking, idiotic.  Murderface was _so_ far above this.  He closed his eyes, leaning forward over his legs as he thought about Kim’s big ass and juggling her boobs.  That’s it.  Think about Kim.  Anyone who wanted to fuck Kim couldn’t be gay, right?  Unless they were a lady, he guessed.  Think about, Kim fuckin’ a lady.  Yeah.  That was some heterosexual stuff right there, that he was thinking.  So straight.  American.  Steak.  Confederate flag.  Trucks.  Two trucks… fucking.

Pickles' knuckle rolled off a knot in his muscle and drove straight into a sore spot, and “Augh, Pickles,” moaned Murderface, and Pickles snorted, the drummer’s hot breath down the back of Murderface's neck.

“Yeah yeah, Murderface.  We get it.  You're sore. _Poooor_ baby."  Pickles wiggled Murderface's shoulder muscle, then made a sound of disgust."Jesus, I cannet believe thet came outta me.  You bring out der worst in me, Murderface, swear to gad...”

Kim Kardashian, with an uzi, and he was fucking her on the Confederate flag.  Kim Kardashian in a Confederate flag bikini, and she had a machine gun.  Kim Kardashian rubbing her pussy on a machine gun, and she was in the back of a pickup truck, and the pickup truck was painted like the Confederate flag, and _Cheeseburger In Paradise_ was on the stereo system.  And Murderface… he was barbecuing.  An endangered species.  Barbequing a Sierra Nevada Bighorn sheep.

It didn’t get much straighter than this.

Pickles ran his warm palms over Murderface’s back through his shirt, caressing all the acned, cratered curves of his body, and the bassist gave a shiver.  He heard Pickles snivel amidst his conversation, trying to determine whether Toki was a tits or ass man (tits, obviously), and the brush of a finger drawn up his back made the image in Murderface’s head flicker.  Kim Kardashian fucking a gun - flick.  Pickles.  Pickles fucking a revolver, sticking it in his fucking cunt like - - fuck, _no!_  No, that was fucking gay!  Murderface had never even seen Pickles’ cunt, was only aware of it in concept and… like… in the warmth of the drummer’s thighs on either side of his waist, his crotch just an inch from his ass.  Jesus fuck.  At least he didn’t have a dick, right.

Flick.  Memory of Nathan, drunk, at the kitchen table.   _Pickles has a really big clit actually, like, it’s almost a dick.  Like basically.  He calls it that.  It’s like really big and fat too.  But that’s a secret and you can’t tell anyone._

Fucking Nathan.  Why tell him something like that.  Well, him and Skwisgaar and Toki as well, anyway.  And also Charles, who had been there too, frowning in disgust.   _Nathan._

_What?_

God damn it.

Pickles in a pickup truck.  Magnus’ pickup truck, a distant memory - they were always too close, before it happened.  Pickles wearing a leather spiked biker jacket.  No pants.  And Magnus was fucking him, in the cunt.  His freckled hand braced on the open window.  And the stereo had Judas Priest on it.   _Turbo Lover_.  No!   _Eat Me Alive_.  No!  No no no no!  Bad dick!  Bad!  That was too gay!  Too gay!  Even if Pickles was the _exception_ , that was _too gay!_

Flick.  Pickles in a dress.  NO.

Flick.  Behind him, Pickles pawed at the muscles around his ribs and armpits, dragging his fingertips hard into the flesh.  Murderface could feel his dick hard against his belly and stayed hunched over, privately rolling his eyes at himself.  Well, fuck it.  Pickles didn’t count, he just had to make it not gay.  Straight sex with Pickles.  Totally hetero.  It’d never happen anyway, Nathan would eat him before he let Pickles even consider it.  So much for just friends, huh?  So why not fantasise, it weren't hurting no one.

But it had to be, you know, realistic.  None of this two trucks fucking shit.  No metal panthers made of fire and steel. So this Pickles, this Pickles in his head that he placed on his bed, sprawled, being fucked, was stoned out of his fucking mind.  With his head lolling on the sheets, and a warm, slick slut cunt, and a fat, erect clit.  Stoned and pissed and self-hating, anything that would lower him to Murderface’s level, fucking him to make himself feel bad.  Or what he thought he was worth.  Murderface, dirt, that was what Pickles deserved.  To be defiled.  Not beautiful groupie babes, not the muscular behemoth that Nathan had become.  Just a stupid, stoner, loser slut, the drink making him floppy in the limbs, arms draped pathetically over the bassist’s pockmarked shoulders with his fingers trailing on his back, and legs spread like a helpless doll under his thrusts.

And it was in Murderface’s room, Pickles’ hips driven into the clean sheets, as Murderface always kept his bed space clean and Pickles _did not_ , and that was _disgusting_.  Pickles was disgusting.  But Pickles would rather crawl into Murderface’s room than dare associate his own space with fucking Murderface, so it made sense, that the drummer would pull his stupid body in there, or else Murderface would drag him in there after he’d won the fuck, or however that worked - the politics of it were beyond him.  Now and then, in Murderface’s fantasy, dull-minded Pickles rolled his eyes away from Murderface’s cock splitting his fat cunt and instead took in the decor.  Murderface’s collection.  Appreciating it all, in mild, dumb awe, the suits of armour, the iron maiden, having never thought of Murderface like that.  Never understood.  And in a brief window of intoxication, spoilt and crammed between the bassist’s pudgy, hard gut and his stiff mattress, _got it_ …

Put his hands on Murderface’s calloused, scarred cheeks, his neck, tenderly, meeting his eyes blurred with lust - -

“Jesus fuck, Murderface.  Thought Charlie told you ya had to be rubbin dese scars, dude.  It’s like der freakin Elephant Man back here.”  Pickles screwed his knuckles into Murderface’s neck and grabbed a short-nailed handful of his back fat, making the bassist whinge in protest as he teased in an excruciating squeal, “ _I am not an elephant… I am a human bein…!”_

Murderface’s eyes snapped open.  “What the fuck, Picklesch?  Tryna rip my schpine out or schome schit!”  He threw an elbow back at Pickles, nearly hitting him, but the lithe little guy dodged it by a hair.

“Okey, okey, I’ll ley off!  Stop squirmin, douchebag.”  Pickles hands returned softer and more careful, pressed warm against his back.  Murderface quickly folded over on himself again, aware of Toki (definitely a tits man) staring at him as though he’d caught a glimpse of the guy’s gnarled hard on sticking through his shorts.  Fuck, couldn’t let them know.  They already all saw enough of that old man to embellish their imaginations. 

Back in Murderface Erotic Cinema, as Pickles rolled his knuckles over his back fat, the Pickles in his dreams fucked, eye-rolling, missionary position, but the legs drawn up.  Murderface had this one in an expanded edition of the Karma Sutra he’d poured over lovingly in his lonesome hours.   _The Pancake_.  An unsexy name for a sexy thing: squashing Pickles flat.  Um.  Try another one.   _Viennese Oyster._  That was good, legs up and against his shoulders as he rutted quickly into the little dickhead, squeaking under him, intoxicated, moaning, _oohhh… Murderface._

Cos in his fantasy, as in reality, Pickles wouldn’t shut up.  As the drummer knotted his short fingers roughly into Murderface’s muscles he chirped on to Nathan by his ear.  “I mean, it’s subjective.  Ain’t ass better’n tit or nothin.  But even if you’re a tit dude, sometimes dere’s a dame with an ass det just overrides it.  Sinks det ship entirely.  I mean, det - den det, is where it gets objective.”

“Yeah, it’s true.  It’s so true.”

Murderface drowned it out.  Pickles droned on constantly, in love with the sound of his own voice, ruined drum takes by squealing and grunting, so it followed that fucking Pickles would be loud as shit.  Squalling like a stuck pig at every poke, grabbing at his arms and almost crying with joy and disgust.   _Oh you fet mudderfucker, fuck me!_  Squeezing his legs around Murderface’s hips, the soft skin of his thighs belying his powerful muscles from a thousand hours of hexikicks.   _Herder!  Fuck!  Heaarrder!  Fu-uck!_

And it was okay, because Pickles was not exactly a dude.  He was a dude.  But he wasn’t exactly a dude.  Murderface was definitely an ass man.  Pickles’ ass - well, he couldn't say he'd looked, or at least stared, or, you know, sought out detail because Murderface was not gay.  But from what he'd seen, it wasn’t half bad.

Imagine Pickles with tits.  Well, like, he had to have had them some time, right?  But he didn’t have scars that Murderface could see.  Then again, they were good with surgery in California and Pickles healed crazy well.  Imagine teenage Pickles, lithe with his red hair spilling over the pillow, and makeup, and little tits flattened by being on his back, soft white flesh topped with fat nipples like cherries on a sundae.  And lipstick, a panting, filthy mouth.  _You fuckin piece of crep.  You disgust me.  You make me feel sick.  Oh!  Jesus.  Fuck, right dere!  Oh, fuck me, nail my cunt, make me your fuckin, slut, Murderface... oooh!_   Still with wristbands, freckles.  The acrid smell of his alcoholic sweat.

Rewind.  His cute ass up in the air, pulling the black lace thong off him teasing, over the gentle curve, the smattering of freckles on his white skin.  Pale as cream on the dark sheets of Murderface’s bed.  Stretching his thin body up against the stone horse of jousting Louis I, Duke of Orléans, in his room, drawing his delicate fingers across the marble muscles.  Pre-op Pickles being fucked by a jousting pole.  Pre-op Pickles being fucked by a horse!  Fuck, no!  Too far!  Too weird!  Pickles would never forgive him for such evil fantasies.

Flick.  This Pickles.  On his back.  Pinned down.  His hand snaked between their sweaty bodies.  Fingers wrapped firm around Murderface’s twisted cock.  Voice in his ear.   _Fuck.  Fuck, dude, det’s fucked up, det - det is not neturel.  What der fuck_.  But his fingers still wantonly caressed the ridged and swollen member, wheezing with his breath caught conflicted as he rubbed the flat, broad head against his cunt lips.  Warm with the buzzed short red pubes a soft fuzz, scattered silver hairs.

Flick.  Up to the hilt, and he was panting and staring desperately between Murderface and the root of his cock.   _Shit.  Shit, you’re so thick, dude.  Oh, shit!_  Murderface hummed to himself contentedly.  Well, Picklesch.  It’sch not the schize, scho musch asch it’sch the schircumfrensche.

“What did you sey?”

Murderface jumped in panic as Pickles spoke into his ear, his heart stopping somewhere in his throat in its fast exit from the humiliation of being in his body.  “Uhhh, nothin!” he wheezed, and Pickles straightened above him, primly rubbing his neck.

“Right.  You an ass man or a tit man, Murderface?” he asked, and Murderface decided to lie.

“Legsch, pal.  You can’t go pascht a good schet of pinsch.”

But Skwisgaar was one step ahead of him.  “Dat ams just, fancies way of saying ass,” he pointed out, smirking.  “Don’ts worries, Moiderface, we all knows you flaming homosecktuals.  Friends of Toto.”

“More like flamin bag of dog crep,” said Pickles, and Murderface just groaned at him.  The drummer leaned over him, his body warm, and spoke again into his ear.  “Ain’t det right, Murderface?  Too frat to be a feg, ain’t ya?”

Murderface hummed, snorted, controlling his anger.  Imagine Pickles, on his bed, whimpering and mewling as he railed him.  The feel of his tight cunt hugged around his dick, so numb from bass strings that he could fuck the little shit for hours.  Pull out the tricks, the twitches, hold Pickles down by the shoulders quivering in pleasure, whimpering, as he flexed his dick inside him, hit all those angles that would make the guy cum again and again until he was exhausted, shaking and glazed in sweat, helpless with bliss.  Begging him to stop but don’t, don’t stop, keep going, please!  Begging for his dick.   _Please Murderface.  Please.  Please, I need it, I need your freak dick, fuck!  Thet’s so sick, all twisted and gnarled and… Jesus.  Fuck… no… I need it._

Those powerful leg muscles.  Braced and rutting back against him in a desperate attempt for the twelfth orgasm in a row.  Pickles loved nothing more that to be stupefied; Murderface could fuck him into a coma.  Or legs, wrapped around him, competitive, _This time I’ll_ **_make_ ** _you cum._ Giving in to Murderface’s stamina.  Switching tacts, mewling again, lolling, tired and helpless and blush-faced and stupid.   _Please cum._ Flick.   Splattered thick and globular across his wincing face.  Oh god.  Flick.  Pickles with a strap on, pushing him down.  Pushing _Nathan_ down.  Fuck!  No!  Flick.  Flushed, panting.  Ankles on his shoulders.  That angle, with his swollen, low-hanging balls nudging his ass with every thrust, the twist of his crooked dick rubbing against his g-spot or his cervix or whatever made him cum the hardest.  His fingers knotted in Murderface's hair as he screwed up his face, shuddered all over, his legs trembling with another orgasm breaking over his devastated body. Biting down on his knuckles and groaning around it. _Oh gad.  Ooh.  I - I need it, Murderface.  I need your cum._

Flick.

A hoarse whisper in his ear.  _I need it._

Flick.

A fingertip drawn, insect light, over the sweat of his neck.  A look right into his eyes, wide-pupiled, like he was in love.  A blissful voice.  In love.

_I need you._

Flick.

_I want you._

Flick.

_I want you in this band._

Fucking hell.

Murderface suddenly stood up, holding his waistcoat in front of his tented crotch.  The others all looked up at him as he announced:

“Excusche me.  I need to go... take a schit.”

Pickles held out his hands uselessly. “Hey!  I wasn’t even finished, douchebag!”  And even the fist he rammed into Murderface’s lower back wasn’t enough to distract the bassist from the way that span his head.  He said nothing and just walked out, leaving Pickles to lean, defeated, on the back of the couch.

“Man.  I’ve gatta stop doin thet fer him.” 

“Huh?” 

“He always gets a hard on, dude.  Always.  It’s messed up.  Makes me feel really, unclean, like… he’s gat prablems, man.”  Pickles gave a deep sigh and cracked his knuckles as Skwisgaar gave him a dirty look from the other side of the couch, ignoring Nathan’s twin look of horror.

“Den why keeps doins it?”

“Small sacrifice to make him shut the fuck up, don’t you think.  Eugh.  I need ta go wash my hands under... boiling water.”

Nathan grumbled disapprovingly and looked back at the TV, muttering quietly: “Worth it.”

“ _Exectly_.”


End file.
